Monday, December 13, 2010

I worked with this schmuck last week...the dude who vomits bad jokes and nothing else. He acted like Jim Carey but looked like an even fuglier Vince Vaughn. I had to work with him for 3 days. Halfway through Day 1, I wanted to strangle him with a seatbelt extension and lock him in the closet (the latter has actually happened between flight attendants but that's for another time). Anyways, here's why I hate him...

Upon deplaning, he said to every passenger, "dick here" in such a way that he could pass it off as "take care" should anyone really listen. And if that wasn't bad enough he added "schlong now" instead of the usually schticky "so long now". And I had to stand right next to him with no place to go. I found myself speaking unnaturally loud to cover up my embarrassment with "BYE!!! THANK YOU!!! GOODNIGHT!"

He worked the first class cabin and stood in front of all 16 of 'em (on every leg mind you...) and said, "So like is anyone from out-of-town?" I now suffer from a wandering, lazy eye because I rolled them so far back in annoyance.

He made the demo announcements and introduced me to the entire plane as "The Infamous Tina" which provoked about a gagillion questions and lots of "slut of the skies" type looks throughout a 7 hour flight.

When the pilots call to communicate with us in cabin from the flightdeck, we're required to state our name and location when we answer. So naturally he answered the phone with, "This is Dick in the rear."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

The "DJ" who creates the boarding music mix tape we are supposed to play when we herd the cattle into my office aeroplane.

The last 3 tapes have all included Justin Beiber bubblegum blah, and most recently there was a B.o.B. POS thrown in there. It's been creating an environment of even more awkwardness with observations of weird jaw thrusts, neck bobs, and shoulder shrugs. Must be the Beiber Fever? (sorry, had to) Don't even get me started with the holiday mix....No, they can't put Mariah Carey's, 'All I Want for Christmas' on it but The Chipmunks Christmas, yup, peppered ALL up in there. Why torture me even more during the boarding process? I'm already not getting paid during it (betcha didn't know that fact) and it's by far THE MOST frustrating part of the job. At least allow me to drown out the, "I don't know where Row 20 is! HELP AHHH!" (Um, really? No, it's not near Row 6, nope not Row 15 either...try behind Row 19, but in front of Row 21? Maybe? Just try, humor me, I know you don't believe me but I've been trained) with something that makes me not want to kill bunnies.Yes, please have mercy and let me drown out the waah waahs of banality with something like perhaps the musical stylings of Miley Cyrus's, 'Party in the U.S.A' /Hanson's, 'MMMBop'/ and/or anything from the Jock Jams collections I,II,III, or XXXVIII, or even any song on the 'Space Jam' soundtrack will suffice.

I guarantee beatz like these would make the boarding process schizophrenically faster. And they're sweet jamz. I will find this DJ and make the appropriate suggestions for new musak. You're welcome.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

So I haven't posted in a few weeks...why? Because I haven't worked. It was a conscious choice to take a conservative month off (last year I took 7), probably prompted by the crazy peanut lady debacle during my last flight (see 'Warm Nuts' post, October) . Thus, the job material I've had lately has only been in my night terrors that often involve trying to prepare the cabin for departure yet every single passenger is still on their cell phone despite my intimidation...even the lap children and service animals.﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿

﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿

No, I don't have a sugar mama or daddy to subsidize my lifestyle and finance such a lengthy time off...but I'd rather be poor than insane so I take these extended breaks as often as I can...and even when I can't, I can. I used a week of this time to travel to Reykjavík, Iceland. It was my second time there, my first being a 3-day stop-over a little over a year ago during a 3-week European tryst...It's now decidely one of my most favorite places in the world. I traveled with another flight attendant this time which is so much easier than traveling with you common folk. We paid only $170 round-trip, less than $50/night in a 4-star hotel, and easily manuevered our schedules all because we are in this niche of an industry. We know what to do and say to the flight attendants with other carriers to get free ugrades and drinks, and we had a fucking fantastic time. This is why I do what I do. This is why I accept the measely pay rate, incessant bullshit, and brain damage due to non-use...because I use the benefits in which this job was designed. I work to not work, to experience the world, not just my own. It's a common statement we flight attendants make, we say our intentions in signing up for this lifestyle was a short-term one, we'd live the glamorous life for 2-5 years and move on to a "real" job...everyone I know who has quit has regretted that decision like Kenny Roger's facelift.

But it's back to reality, back to the grind, 24-hour Cabo San Lucas layover with a dear FA friend of mine this weekend. Sadly, my vacation is over. I hope I can still remember how to demo the use of the seatbelts...Is it push or pull? Arrgh, I can never remember...

Thursday, October 21, 2010

So I had this passenger. She was gross. She somehow sat in my first class cabin, traveling with her elderly father. I think she belonged in the belly with the animals. I was warned of them by another flight attendant who had them on a previous leg earlier in the day. They must've been from Appalachia or maybe Utah and here's why...

1. Her drink of choice was red wine mixed with ginger ale over ice. Who does that?
2. She pointedly asked for ice in her father's water...but then when I brought it to him, he said he didn't want ice. I look to her for confirmation but she blames the mistake on her poor, senile dad. She proceeds to request that I remove each ice cube with a spoon. I said, "I'll get right on that but it may take me forever."

3. She crawls over her father as she is seated at the window to use the lavatory. I hear her whine, "This is ridiculous!"... Her issue was in the amount of space in her row. We all know that the real issue is with the space she took up. She was sure it was tighter than the row in front of her. I said "No it isn't ma'am. It's all standard and you're in first class which is the roomiest of all. Feel free to measure the row in front of you and get back to me."

4. She comes out of the bathroom and asks me where the BIGGER bathrooms are on the plane. She was totally serious. And how did I respond?
"HHHHHAHAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHhahahahahahHAHHHHAHAAAhahahahahahahahaHA!!!"

5. And this is my favorite part. I serve her a ramekin of warm, mixed nuts about an hour out from landing. She freaks and says she can't have them as she is allergic to peanuts. I tell her there are no peanuts in the mix so she's safe. She looks at me. She looks at me for a long time. Maybe 5-hour long seconds-ish. Something like that. I break the silence by pointing to each type of nut and I name them very slowly for her....cashew........walnut........almond. See? No peanuts. She says, "So you're saying those aren't peanuts??" ......Ummmmmm nope, they most certainly are not I assure her. In my head I'm thinking, "Is this conversation seriously happening right now?". I ask if it's an allergy to all nuts...she says, "No. Peanuts." I'm so confused by the idiocracy of this moron and now other passengers are watching this exchange and listening in on my nut classification lesson. So I say, "Ma'am okay, ALL peanuts are nuts......BUT all nuts are NOT peanuts, make sense?" She looks even more doofus-eyed (probably shouldn't have used an SAT type analogy on this winner) and thus, I retired as a teacher right then and there and said "You know what? Nevermind...."....and just fucking took the damn peanuts out of her sight.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

The flight attendant jumpseat. It's the pull-down, ass-flattening, back-breaking "seat" we're required to sit on for take-offs and landings...and it's the most uncomfortable thing my bootay has ever had to meet. You passengers think you're uncomfortable? There is no reclining for us, no resting of the arms, and the worst part, besides the fact that they are so close to the lavatories that I can smell and hear business being done, yes, the worst part is that I have to share my seat with another, sometimes rather portly FA with no option to switch, even if I wanted to...and most of the time, I really, like really want to. It can be incredibly awkward...or absolutely fascinating.

I think the jumpseat possesses superpowers. Or more like, spewerpowers. You sit a flight attendant on that thing, and they spew out shit like the BP oil spill. I'm telling you, personal, personal 'I'm trying not to judge you but I totally am' kinda shit. I bet if you Googled "TMI", flight attendants are somewhere in the search results. We joke that it's 'free therapy' and it probably happens because there is safety in anonymity...in knowing that if I'm told you're cheating on your husband with a baggage handler in Dallas or the inner details of your struggles with Irritable Bowel Syndrome on the airplane, I won't give a fuck and I probably won't see you again for a couple of months or even years even if I did give a fuck. So verbal diarrhea ensues a lot on the J/S...I admit to it. Yeah, I've leaked some personal information (still kicking myself for telling blabbermouth Barb how I have all of Hanson's albums on my iPod currently) out of boredom to an almost complete stranger. When you're stuck and there's no one else to talk to but eachother, when you're tired of bitching about the flight at hand and company matters, have eaten all the left-overs, & have read and re-read all the newspapers and magazines we hoard, we tend to spill out our deepest, darkest secrets. I know some shit ya'll...yes I do, and I think I'm decently good at keeping secrets, but get me on that J/S, and man, I'll tell you all that shit...that I know.

Monday, September 13, 2010

It's happened. I flew with a flight attendant who wore Crocs for her inflight shoes. I know! Gross! My eyeballs almost bugged completely out of their sockets when they drifted to the horrors engulfing her feet. Thankfully no charms for added flair but she may as well have pinned a Hello Kitty or two to them they were so distracting. And I thought Danskos were bad enough...you know who you are ladies.

So I thought she'd change into her appropriate "concourse" mandatory heels after deplaning our flight like most of us do...it's how we fake the little glamour we have left. To my embarrassment, she didn't. She walked all over the airport in those flippers with me by her side. I tried to drift behind her but she slowed to meet my strut with her clunk. It was like that recurring nightmare when you're running as fast as you can but the scenery stays the same. I felt like all eyes were upon us...judging her footwear and subsequently me by association. And then I realized where we were, the airport where it's now sadly acceptable to wear pajamas and wife-beaters as travel wear. I realized quickly that those eyes were not upon her to judge, but because they probably wanted a pair.

Eye Vomit

Fashion is mostly dead in my airline world. What happened to caring about what you put on your body and feet? It's all a blur of 3/$10 souvenir T-shirts, logo blasts, tattoo prints, tapered jeans and khakis, embroidery and bedazzlement. And I've learned to handle these monstrosities but I won't put up with Crocs. No, dammit I will not! I'm putting my pumps down on that one.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Today, a burly sort of fisherman stopped me in the aisle as I was trying to solicit credit card applications while knowing nothing about them....and said this to me...after about 4 Jack Daniels on the rocks.

Man: I gotta ask...how long?
Me: 1 hour
Man: No no, how long have you been doing this?
Me: 4 looooong years.
Man: Really?
Me: Oh yes.
Man: You're doing a great job (pats me lovingly yet creepy on the arm)...You're gonna make a great family member.

I awkwardly "ha ha ho ha" as I sneak away dodging the chunkos spilling out into the aisle, slowing my retreat while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with everyone else so that they can't fault me if I don't know they need anything, until I get to the back galley and think to myself....what? I am a family member...to many....I think I knew what he meant but that's a new one...I usually get, "How old do you have to be to do what you do?" assuming a compliment to my rare youth in contrast to all the blue-hairs in my industry family that I have to pretend to identify with.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

So I get a sample of what's popular with you wild animals during each flight, especially in reading material. I just have to say that I'm sick of seeing this book on the goddamn airplane people...Have I read it? No. Will I read it? No. Why? because EVERYONE and their onboard pet is reading it and mainly because the cover is as ugly as puke. It's like 'Eat, Pray, Love' has reared it's ugly, whiny head yet again. Please, at least Kindle it so I don't have to see it. Lately, I see at least one copy per row and it's bugging the shit outta me. Is this ridiculous? Probably. Do I care? No. Maybe it's because I hate dragon tattoos in general (they are right up there with tribal/barbed wire bands & butterfly tramp stamps in my "book") or maybe it's because I loathe when the masses succumb to fads.

Monday, July 26, 2010

So I'm working the beverage cart and the man to my immediate right accidentally dings the call light while going for his reading light. He fixes his mistake right away but it's been a boring day (no medicals or escaping UMs) so I decide to fuck with him.

I say dramatically for all within the area to hear with crazy Gumby arms..."Sir! I'm RIGHT here. Can't you see?...you're next, geez (insert eye roll, head toss)!"

Wait for it....wait for it...awkward silence...horrified face...tail between legs...and then I bust out into a smile and all is hilarious.

I turn to the party to my left now and they ask me for like 7 drinks all at once but I love them because they laughed at my joke. So I fuck with them too.

I say "Whoa, hold up, hold up...I'm just a dumb flight attendant. One at a time, speak slowly, and please pause inbetween." I love them more because they laughed more and as I run their credit card purchases I ask if I can put my 'worthless college education' on their tab. I have 'em rolling. Man, I'm working the crowd today.

But one person didn't think I was funny...the flight attendant working across the cart from me. Hater. I think her Spanx must've been a bit too tight.

Monday, July 19, 2010

No matter what it is, seems like anything can be made in a convection oven on an airplane with this formula: 275 degrees, 20min. I'm telling you, it's some Easy Bake oven magic shit. Cheeseburgers, chicken, steak, soup, eggs, frozen dinners, whatever, in about 20min, it's good to go. I wouldn't be surprised if you even threw in your knitting and ding! You now have your scarf. How about Friday's USA Today crossword? Completed. Trying to get through War & Peace? Or anything by Rush Limbaugh maybe? Pop it in and poof! it's read for you. But if you are reading anything in the rightist family of Limbaugh, Coulter, or O'Reilly, I'll throw you in the oven and hope, hope, hope that in 20 minutes, you'll come out a decent human being. If that doesn't work, I'll try 375 at forever.

Monday, July 12, 2010

How dare my assumptions lie to me. I imagined glamourously swimming in a plethora of pilots who closely resembled George Clooney and Brad Pitt before I first started in this industry. But no, instead, I've been witness to what I like to call Short-Man Syndrome. 4 out of 5 pilots seem to suffer from this disease. It's when if the said pilot quite commonly happens to look like a cross between a garden gnome, an Oompa Loompa, and Santa Claus, and thus, they have no choice but to overcompensate. (The rare female pilot is excluded.)

Overcompensate with what? Let's see...American flag ties and patriotic pins, patchwork leather bomber jackets, bad jokes (sometimes over the PA in which when this happens, I want to yell 'FIRE!' or if we are in the air "WE'RE GOING DOWN!" so I can drown the douche out with screaming), moustaches, when they come out of the flight deck for a potty break they make such a scene so that the whole cabin can see who's "in command", giving TMI (ex. "We will be taking off from runway Alpha Delta Foxtrot 29er and then will be making a left turn over the Cascade Mt. Range and then a right turn towards China where we will ascend to exactly 36,000ft in which the ride will be smooth until we fly over Never Never Land where we may hit some mildly severe turbulence, blah, blah, no one fucking cares, blaaaaaaaaaah."), and finally, the short man almost always carries a gun for protection. You never see the ever so rare 'average to attractive' looking pilot carrying that shit. Just sayin'...

Monday, July 5, 2010

Ya know, one reason why I love my job is that I get to feel really, really, really smart when I see everyone else being really, really, really stupid. For example...

'PUSH HERE'. Seemingly, a simple instruction. Apparently 99% of the flying public doesn't think so. This sign is clearly displayed on the lavatory bi-fold doors on the aircraft in which I work on. Supposedly, you push on the placard practically shouting these instructions, and WAHLAH! MAGIC! The door folds inward and BAM!...you can now drop the kids off at the pool and hopefully wash your hands.

Nope, not that simple apparently. It is unfreakingbelieveable the struggles I witness in trying to gain access to the lavatory. I don't know how 'PUSH HERE' can be confused with 'pull ashtray', 'rotate imaginary handle', 'kick me', 'walk right thru', or any other command. I kinda get some sadistic enjoyment in watching the horror on the faces of especially the woman in the power suit or the guy reading the Wall Street Journal taking 4-13 attempts to open the bathroom door. They hate that I'm watching them fiddle aimlessly with this rocket science. After the first few attempts, they surrender and look to me in desperation. I'm like God in this moment. I lift my index finger, and painfully slow, I markedly motion across their field of vision, drawing their attention to the obvious sign. Fake LOL laughter ensues from embarrassment. My mouth and eyes smile in pity until the door locks behind them and then my true stoic face and rolled eyes now waits for the emergency lav chime to go off instead of a flush because they missed that button RIGHT NEXT TO THEIR ASS too.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Today, a sumo of a woman rang her flight attendant call button during boarding. Being the super-stew that I am, I rush to be of service. I come upon her frame and survey the area. I wait for the obvious seatbelt extension request, but she surprises me with her phrasing. She says to me, "My seatbelt is too small."

Um, yah.

I tell my co-flight attendant about this clever cow and she tells me what she says when asked for the fat belts..."Oh my, did you get the short one today?" which I think would be embarrassingly offensive but she assures me that "It's all in the delivery."

Monday, June 28, 2010

I just had to share this dooooozie from a co-worker's FB wall post. The last part especially surprised even me.

'OMG. In one day we had a medical emergency, a dog having a seizure, and to top it all off a grown man threw up on himself. I asked him if he had a change of clothes in his carry-on. He said No, then changed his mind and said Yes. He proceeded to get down another passengers bag and change into that persons shirt. No lie... WTF..... The guy actually took out the other passengers toiletry(cosmetic bag) and left it in the bathroom. We brought it up and said you left this in the bathroom. The other gentlemen said "Hey, that's mine!" Then he got up and said, "Wait! You're wearing my shirt. Did you take that from my bag.?" I thought there was going to be a full blown fight.'

I'm speechless & I'm dying to know how the crew handled it in the end. This is a case where I hope that man was a clinically diagnosed freak because if he wasn't...then WTF? WTF? WTF?

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

On flights under an hour, usually we offer an abbreviated version of our complimentary beverage service: the choices consist of orange juice or water. That's it. Count 'em. Two choices. 1, 2. I made an extremely clear announcement regarding this. Today I had this exchange...

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Here's a tip. You're on a flight and you need to pass gas. You probably ate the 100% Angus Beef (yeah right) cheeseburger we sold you or drank the milk that was catered a gillion hours ago unrefrigerated. Not my problem but it becomes everybody's problem when you're stinking up the recycled air we have no choice but to breath in. There's not much you can do except hide the fact that you are the source so that you may live to reach your final destination. So this is what you do...you cropdust.

Get out into the aisle and walk with purpose. Don't let your face show any signs of clenching , struggle, or embarrassment or we will find you and judge you and hate you and be disgusted by you. Don't walk too slow or too fast. Steady now. Cropdust up and down the aisle ever so evenly and watch the embarassment other passengers have in trying to deny that it was them.

I actually say that outloud and give a seering look of complete idiocracy in response when dumbasses ask me what I have on the beverage cart. You want me to spell it out for you? How about I follow you to the lavatory and wipe your ass too? What do you think I have? Fresh fruit smoothies? Milkshakes? Blended margaritas? It's an airplane. Either listen to the announcements, look at the menu directly in front of you, or make an edumakated guess.

Friday, June 18, 2010

Yeah, I know one of my most glamorous duties as a flight attendant is to collect "used service items" aka your gross garbage. And I really have no problem doing it except when....

1. You hand me garbage as soon as you walk on the plane. Your response to my "Good morning! Welcome aboard!" is trash. There is no 'I'm so sorry to do this to you' or 'thank you so much'. I just get trash coming at me before I've even had a chance to process what's happening and to refuse your lipstick kissed Starbucks cup. The pilot I was flying with yesterday witnessed this sadly common event and said to me "Wow. People actually do that?" Thank you! It'd be one thing if you asked to be shown where the nearest trash receptacle was so that YOU can own your environmental impact but instead you shove your double tall iced 2% no foam vanilla latte cup in my face.

2. I'm coming through the aisle for garbage collection and it looks like you shat all over your cup & beverage napkin and put it in my bare hand instead of attempting to place it in the GARBAGE BAG.

3. You hand me garbage piece by piece. It's so bizarre. Why not consolidate your shit and hand it to me all at once in a nice, neat, ball? Sometimes I see the guy who had his itsy-bitsy coffee with 5 sugars and 4 creams hand me each single-serving package back one at a time, shooting hoops. This does not kill any significant amount of flight time mister...just makes me want to kill you.

4. You take up way too much room in the trash bag because you had to bring on board 2 large pizza boxes and a Big Gulp. You're grosser than your garbage.

5. You ring you flight attendant call button as soon as we've sat down to have a little break and maybe eat something ourselves...I swiftly walk up to your row thinking it's an emergency (because that's what the button is for!) but no, you indeed have interrupted my dinner that I'm already eating next to the lavatories so that I can pick up a napkin that you just had to get rid of now.

6. You try to give me garbage as I'm doing the somewhat sanitary beverage service. Think about what you're doing.

7. You think there's a garbage can on the clean beverage cart and toss your shit into it without asking when we're not looking. You just put your snotty tissue into someone else's ice dumbass.

8. Your seat back pocket is not a garbage can. I'll walk by, see the pocket stuffed full of shit and linger. I'm here to get it off your hands, this is the opportunity. You see me. Oh you see me, but you're just too lazy to reach in and transfer the trash to the proper place. I get it! That mass paperback is just so enthralling that you can't tear yourself away for 2 seconds. I totally get it. And you are the one that rings the call button 2 seconds later for princess garbage pick-up. Your checked luggage never makes it to your final destination does it? Maybe it was re-routed to the nearest landfill...

Monday, June 14, 2010

So when I get assigned to fly, 9 times out of 10, I've never met anyone I'm working with before. It's a crapshoot. Chance, fate, karma? I never know what freak(s) I may have to fly a 1 to 4-day trip with in a tin can with nowhere to hide. The crew's dynamic is probably the most critical determinant of the trip's fun factor. So the first thing I do to gain an idea of what I'm in for is to look up the names of my co-workers. What I've found is that if the names of my crew members are something along the lines of Rhonda, Barbara, Wendy, Jean, and/or Edna, the trip is gonna suck. It just is. My theory of 'old lady name judgement' is not 100% accurate...I mean, on layover I've definitely knocked a few back with Fannie and knickerknocked hotel rooms that one crazy night with Deb, but it is almost always true if the old lady name corresponds to a low seniority number...a senior mama I like to call 'em. If this is the case, I don't take chances. I fake food poisioning, Swine Flu, or Mad Cow Disease (whichever I haven't abused too heavily in the last month) and hope that I fly with Apple, Harlow, and Rumor next trip.

Monday, June 7, 2010

They are the puppeteers that control me. One false move and I could be banished to the arctic for days...I could be sent on 4 all-nighters in a row with a bunch of vampires (that's what I call the sallow, haggard looking FAs [no, not the hot kind of vampire] who choose these flights regularly)...I might be forced to work 14.5hr days with only 'cheese food' to eat...I could be stuck working with crews who's senority numbers are in the single digits (oh please, have mercy, that one may be the worst).

Crew Scheduling. They are programmed into my cell phone as the most heinous ringtone imaginable. When they call & I hear the death metal march reverberate, my heart palpitates...my palms instantly sweat...I lose my shit everytime. They tell me when and where I need to be, where I will be going, when I get to come home, if I need my bathing suit or snow shoes, if I should prepare myself for the Vegas douchebags or the Orange County bitches...and if I don't follow their command or if there is any trace of attitude in my reactions, I could be 'flagged' and eveything I said above can and will happen. I say to myself, "Just suck it up! Show no emotion. You are a machine. Someday there will be retribution!" I know no faces of whom these beings are, just omniscent voices and first names (which are probably aliases), of whom every detail of my working life is in control of. Obviously, this is for their safety...I can't stab the heel of my 2-inch pump into a face I've never seen.

I remember being on a layover wanting to hang myself from my hotel bathroom's shower rod somewhere in buttfuck, Alaska. It was the dead of winter, -29 degrees and I'm in a fucking skirt. Crew Scheduling reassigned my freezing ass from laying over in sun to snow at the last minute. I can see them all now...sitting around the office in their Old Navy jeans behind their computers with pictures of cats as screensavers...they're cackling, laughing sinisterly at my expense, picturing my snot and tears dripping icicles as I struggle to make it from airport to hotel van without my joints snapping. So there I am, contemplating my dramatic death, but my fingers are too fucking frozen to tie the noose. But really, it was the flashing thought of Crew Scheduling, fuming and irrate for having to find a trip replacement due to my suicide, which stopped me. I couldn't allow another reserve to pay because of me. I believe there is karma even in death. So I guess Crew Scheduling saved my life...mother effer, they always win.

Friday, June 4, 2010

So as I've said, airplane ice is a BIG effing deal (to the FAs and passengers) and thus deserves its own post. I worked a flight from LAX-SJD yesterday and one member of my crew lost it. Literally lost it, grumbling through grated teeth to the other FA working the beverage cart, "Go to the back galley and get me my medication." He was completely serious. It was a difficult flight to begin with (most Cabo flights are) but the final straw for him was because of the I-C-E...because a couple of twenty-something year old girls from Vancouver (an important detail as FAs can uncannily peg anyone's 'neediness level' based on route cities) refused their drinks because the ice was...melting. Really. Really? Really. That's what ice does you stupid, stupid girls, it melts. Especially after sitting on a full plane for a few hours going into Mexico. What do you want us to do? Run to the corner store? Throw the melting ice into the freezer we don't have? Order it to be sent up via super bird?

Besides those effing stupid girls, ice is also a BIG effing deal with particular cultures, notably with asian and hispanic cultures. They DO NOT want anything to do with it. It's almost scary, the aversion they have to frozen water. It's like there's poop in it or something...and that's exactly why mexican citizens hate ice. Their ice is unclean therefore all ice is unclean. They interpret our question of "Would you like ice in that?" as "Would you like feces with your beverage?" And for the asian cultures, I dunno...I just think it's a temperature issue which would explain the guaranteed hot tea requests after screaming, "NOOOO ICE! Ok!?! NOOOOOOOOOOOO ICE! AHHHH!" accompanied by animated hand gestures which I guess are supposed to mean the same thing but really look like they want to murder me, the terrifying ice monster.

Then we have those who are very specific to the exact number of ice cubes they would like. 1, 2, 3 and a half, 7, etc... you picky bastards deserve poop in your beverage.

As for the flight attendants like myself, nothing makes us happier than if the ice we are catered is of "quality". Meaning no chunks of shapeless, cracked mass, but if it's uniformly cubed we rejoice. We Hallelujah! and high-five eachother as if the plane were empty...if it's 'good ice.' The only reason why is because the sodas foam less so that we can get through the cabin with you yelling 'NO ICE!' or insane 2.75 ice cube requests that much faster and so then can get back to the jumpseat to catch up on the latest smut in the US Weekly we stole from you.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Besides hot tea, did you know Diet Coke is the most annoying drink you can order from a flight attendant/air hostess/stewardess/oh miss!/sky hag/slut of the skies? Why? Something about the reaction it has with the ice (a separate post devoted solely to airplane ice to come btw)...I stand there for awkwardly long lengths of time, all bored, needy eyes on me taking a break from their super fun Sudoku and I just know they're wondering 'WTF? Will she hurry up and get to my row already? Why is she just standing there?' You wanna know wtf I'm doing? I'm busy watching the foam dissolve painfully slow, having now ample opportunity to contemplate the tortured death of the passenger who ordered it...the passenger who watched me pour liquid cancer into their plastic cup carefully & methodically....and then asked for the whole can.
I struggle to compose myself, using every ounce of energy I've got (given to me by that delicious raw russet potato aka my 'crew snack') to move the cart along one more row. And as I set down another bag of partially-hydrogenated party mix, I wince because I know it's coming. I see 22A start to mouth those two words to me in slow motion as if this were some cruel joke to further drive me to commit my first homicide at 35,000 ft...I attempt telepathy to change the inevitable outcome- How about water, no ice? I'll even get you two beverages! Yes, I'm desperate now, I'll even run for a HOT TEA dammit! Anything but...well, you know. I can't even say it. But my face can no longer hide the horror as this nightmare repeats itself row after row after row.

About Me

Hi! I'm a space waitress, stewardess, air hostess, and flight attendant. Although based on my true experiences or those told through me, the satire and sarcasm expressed in this blog is in no way associated with the airline I work for or the union that represents me.